Ab Aeterno
by Gosangoku
Summary: Eight truths and testaments of their turmultuous relationship. — US/UK


**a b**

**a e t e r n o**

**{ **_g o s a n g o k u _**}**

**x.**

_i. They haven't always loved each other._

The first tears England had shed before his young protégé were those not composed of real emotion. Crocodile rivers slipped over his pale cheeks as thoughts condensed in his mind and he grasped ahold of them, knowing that he could easily manipulate a new and uneducated country into being a possession. He had previously succumbed to the feigned smiles and delicate words that more experienced nations had spoken and had paid the price time and again and by the time he had realised that nobody was trustworthy, he was already tainted, the last of his innocence being stolen by one who had claimed to be his caring older brother on the stone floors drenched in his own blood.

He had anticipated a small hand tugging needily at his sleeve, and slowly raised his gaze to meet anxious eyes, pure blue. Initially, they made him think of the sea, _his _sea, the one he controlled, but no. They weren't filled with storm clouds or corpses or cruelty, but were bright and unknowing like the rural sky on a warm summer's day. This newfound land, America, had the eyes that resonated freedom. England had the eyes of the damned.

"Are you okay?" the boy whispered conspiratorially, tilting his head as his brows knitted together in concern, his grip on the Brit's sleeve tightening as he stood on his tip toes to peer into his face. "Please do not cry," he said ruefully. "If I go with you, will you stop crying?"

The arrangement was out of convenience for himself and his growing empire as well as his sought after revenge after France had insisted upon England's culture adapting to his own. He glanced at the other man through thinly veiled supremacy, pleased to see the other sneering in displeasure at the scene before him.

He had only wanted America out of greed but as the years passed by, he found his act of a caring older brother feeling more real to him. Eventually, somewhere along the line, the pretense he had maintained to fool the younger boy had become reality. It was ironic, then, that when he had begun to realise that he truly loved the boy, America had grown to understand England's greed and deception.

_ii. They hadn't been angry solely towards one another during the revolution._

It was a common misconception that both America and England had loathed one another during and following the War of Independence. The Boston Tea Party had finally forced England to accept the reality of the situation and realise that his colony was both serious and adamant about having his way; that the boy had become a man and, as such, he would no longer stand for England's insatiable greed. When America had finally broke, actually _growling _upon England's latest jibe, he threw his fists to the table and the wood splintered and cracked and the china teaset shattered as it collided with the floor. Acidic green eyes rose to meet fiery cobalt and his lips parted - for another patronising rebuke, no doubt - but America beat him to it, stepping pointedly over the fragments of china and grabbing England's wrist in a vice grip. His cup overflowed and droplets spilt onto his uniform before it, too, met the unforgiving ground.

"America, what on _earth_—" he began, furious, before cutting himself off with a gasp that surprised even him. His colony dragged him out of his chair and practically _threw_ him against the wall. He reeled around, fist prepared to launch at America's relatively unblemished face, but his arm was caught for the second time, much to his chagrin.

"I am not a _child_, England," he hissed furiously, eyes glinting with _something_ that England had never seen before. Or at least, never identified lingering within his charge's seemingly sweet blue eyes. "I will do whatever it takes to stop you from treating me like one."

Later, as America sat beside a window, gazing out at the stars that glimmered in the night sky, his fists clenched in his lap, and the soldier he had been clutching snapped. He wondered why England was such a bastard, why he had to impose these taxes on America, why he never told his "precious boy" _anything_... Why he himself had lost his innocence and discovered that his guardian wasn't as perfect as he had once thought. _I do not wish to harm you, England_, he thought, scared and more alone than ever before because England was the only one he had... _But it is what I must do..._

The stray pieces of china that England had been gathering slit the inside of his palm. A drop of blood slithered down below his sleeve and met the bruise that had formed in the shape of America's fingers that he suddenly realised were not as tiny as they used to be. Why did America have to grow? _Why can I not keep anything that I love?_

iii. England had not really mistaken Canada for America, but pretended to do so.

"You should not be moving, England," the soft but firm voice reprimanded, warm breath ghosting over his ear and, oh, he knew that America would never sound so kind, so gentle, but he _wished_. Careful hands drifted over his exposed flesh, his uniform having been peeled off and tossed aside, and he was too tired to be ashamed of his lacklustre appearance. He felt the bandages slithering over him, around him, too tight, but not tight enough. "I know it hurts," the other man said quietly once more, so different and yet so similar to his brother's... "but if you want your condition to improve swiftly, you must allow me to—"

His arm rose, shivering as it slid over the Canadian's clothed shoulders, red, red just like England's uniform, red his England's blood and his tainted flag—and he kissed him. Their lips pressed together, soft, reluctant, both knowing it was wrong and cruel and unfair to both of them, but neither willing to stop, England because he wanted, wanted, _wanted_, and Canada because he couldn't let England hurt so much.

Canada smiled, anguished, through half-lidded eyes so akin to his brother's, yet lacking the determination, but perhaps not lacking the reproach and resentfulness towards England's that he always knew he had harboured after he took him from France like he was nothing. He just _smiled_, sad but empty, as England clung to him and sobbed dryly and arched into Canada's touch before recoiling guiltily, smiled as the man collapsed back against the floor and whispered, "America, Alfred, _Alfred_..."

_iv. America might have been abysmal at reading the atmosphere, but he wasn't oblivious; when the Anglo-Japanese alliance formed, he realised that he was jealous._

He had been one of the first to notice the fleeting smiles exchanged by England and Japan, and he had been one of the few to be irritated by it. They lingered behind after meetings to converse with soft-spoken words and timid smiles that insinuated something deeper hidden beneath the surface of their private talks. He hadn't realised he had been watchful of the two until his gaze proceded to drift towards them during every meeting in which they were together. Their hands brushed together and he bristled, hot fury spreading through him like wildfire, only placated when they retracted their hands and murmured awkward apologies. As he made his way out later, he brushed past their desk, knocking over Japan's papers seemingly by accident. He felt a strange pleasure in the momentary agitation that crept over the man's distant face, but the anger returned when England politely said, "Let me help you."

He couldn't help but feel pleased when it ended. Not long after, he found England slumped over a bar, eyes half-shut and lips parted as he breathed slowly, sporadically licking his lips and slurring a demand for another drink. He waited in the doorway, watching the unhappy figure, but then entered when an inebriated man muttered an insult about creepy guys lurking around. He hesitantly approached the bar and shook his head when the bartender offered a drink, then shook the half-conscious Brit. "England, I'm taking you home," he murmured, grimacing when the man just let out a low moan.

When he had, after much struggle, finally got England back to his house and uncerimoniously dropped him on his bed, he froze by the door as the Englishman's drunken words broke through the silence.

"I'm lonely, Alfred," he whispered, the words blurring together but still comprehensible. "I'm alone."

America couldn't bring himself to say anything, so he left, turning off the light, shutting the door, and blocking out the intoxicated sobs.

_v. He feared and yearned for America's touch._

"Why do you refuse to look at me?" America demanded, hands gripping England's shoulders hard and the now smaller man craved to rip himself away. He was an empire, he was a man, so why did he feel inferior to a rebellious colony who had metaphorically burnt his flag? "Y' still sore about the revolution? I ain't never gonna take my words or actions back, England. I cannot, nor do I want ta. Y' hate me, don't you?"

He inhaled deeply, trying to soothe his turbulant spirit, and then raised a hand to push at America's chest. "It has nothing to do with that, America. Now, please, we are in the midst of a _world war_, and—"

"You're scared."

He tensed briefly, the words too close for comfort; they hit him hard and he could feel the words being breathed out against his face. _Too close._ "America, please, this is not the time—"

"It's never the time with you, is it?" America suddenly shouted, the volume stunning England, but he didn't let his mask slip. The younger man removed his hands, jerking back as it burnt, and turned away, running a hand through his hair. "I wonder if you will _ever _be honest."

"Honest," England repeated quietly, sounding more like a subdued sigh than a word, and his gaze drifted to the wooden floor. Rain cascaded upon the windows and he couldn't help but smile bitterly at the nostalgia that accompanied the neverending torrent of sky-tears. With a sudden spark of unfounded, unfamiliar determination, he stepped forwards and pressed his hand against America's back, marvelling at how broad it was, how it shifted and rippled beneath his hand that once seemed to large in comparison to his small, barely significant colony. "America," he breathed, steeling himself. He closed his eyes and sighed, the sound oddly loud in the small room. "I... I do not hate you."

That was about as honest as he could be. But obviously, it did something, for after a moment's silence, America turned and grabbed England's descending hand. There was a flicker amidst the conflicting cerulean and marine depths and England wondered if America, too, had noticed the significance behind his hands that were long, lithe, slender, and now nothing in comparison to America's calloused, flat, large palm and encompassed his own.

The clock ticked ominously in the background and the rain continued to fall. England sighed, America looked away, and the moment disappeared into the past, just as everything eventually did.

_vi. England wasn't the only one who taught._

Instead of water, it was confetti that rained down, neverending torrents of colourful paper that brightened the entire place. It was saturated sepia tones in photographs that followed centuries after, but in that moment, it was colour. A blue sky that finally reflected America's eyes peered through the dissipating storm clouds of yesterday and weak rays of sunlight filtered through.

Forest green eyes widened in astonishment as a tanned hand outstretched before him, and he followed its length to meet relieved, proud blue. "Let's dance, Arthur," America said, baritone voice near a whisper, and England wondered why he almost shuddered at the use of his human name. They were in public and it was subsequently out of obligation that they referred to one another by such names, but _hearing _it...

"I am sure you will only tease me," he muttered, scowling moodily despite the oddly light mood he felt. "The only dances I know are—"

"Old fashioned, out of date, and plain dull," America finished with a haughty grin. "So lemme teach you some new swingin' ones." He thrust his arm insistently forwards, and England sighed deeply and placed his pale hand in the resilient American's. He winked and grinned brightly and England felt his pulse quicken. "I promise I'll go easy on ya, Arthur."

By the time they had finished dancing, it was dark out and most of the people had moved indoors, drinking and dancing and laughing, and they were swaying back and forth slowly beneath the moonlight. England knew he couldn't blame his speedy heartbeat on the quick "Jitterbug" or whatever the devil America's youths called it.

"We won," America whispered hotly into England's ear. "We won, Arthur."

America no longer had to call him that—the streets were deserted save for lingering crickets and stray rats. He flushed, squeezing the American's hand, and allowed himself to relax against the man's shoulder, eyes falling shut. "That we did, Alfred," he murmured wearily, happily back. "That we did."

_vii. The course of true love never did run smooth; although England had sided with America during the Cold War, although he loved America, he didn't quite _like _him._

"I am not your _property_, America," he hissed furiously, batting away the large hands that slid too close to his private regions for comfort. The hand returned soon after, however, insistently pressing against his crotch. "_America_," he bit out.

"I _know_," America grumbled, glaring down in annoyance. "But you love me. You're on my side," he said, and then his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "_Aren't _you, England?"

"You know I am, you twat," he muttered lowly, shaking his head with an irritated sigh. "I just don't appreciate being treated like a possession to combat Russia. Honestly, you both have egos the size of your land mass." The hand on his groin tightened and England stiffened in his chair, biting his lip to stop any sound from spilling out. "America—"

"You want me to treat you like a china doll, England?" The words were tight and cold against his neck; the temperature was low here and he had already been suppressing shivers, but now frosty breath was ghosting over his exposed flesh and he couldn't control the shudder that wracked his frame. "I'd treat you good. Russia doesn't take care of his toys, but I will. I'm not like him. Fucking hypocrite, he's a Commie but he hurts people and insists he's better than others—"

"America, you're hurting me." It pained him to say it even more than it did to admit it, but America's large hand was curled around his thigh and his fingers were digging into his leg, his grip tightening with every cantankerous word that passed his chapped lips.

America flinched, tearing his hand away, eyes widening. "I-I'm sorry, England, I—"

"I know you didn't mean to," the Brit cut in coolly, disguising the previous panic that had slithered through him. He loathed being reminded of his depleted strength and how his lover had... _replaced_ him, in a way. "I know that, but please try to remember. My pride's already been shot into oblivion; it hardly requires a guillotine, so please try to remember your newfound strength and my loss of it."

The younger man seemed torn between reproachful remorse and resentful rage, and eventually he just let out a frustrated sigh and turned away pointedly. Of course, he was a verbal creature, and as soon as the meeting had reached its completion, he grabbed England's arm and dragged him away, outside, away from that _fucking _Commie and outside into the brisk evening air, only to suddenly stop beneath a flickering streetlamp.

"America," England murmured, sounding very strained, "my arm."

He dropped it and took a step away. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

Later, as England lowered himself onto his American lover's prominent erection, he momentarily revelled in the control he had over it. Nowadays, when they made love, England was always in charge because both had a silent acknowledgement of America's untrustworthy strength. Whether he was taking America or it was the other way around, he was in control. That way, he was never hurt. Not too much, at least, but secretively he sought after some pain—pain that would linger for a few days, that would make him need the support of walls and compel him to sit down after every few steps, because he liked being reminded of America's presence whenever he left. If they wouldn't see each other for weeks, he made sure that he impaled himself, riding America as roughly as possible, so that they could both _feel _it long after.

But, he amended as he gazed into his lover's half-lidded stare, biting his lip and seeing America's eyes briefly flicker towards it, feeling those powerful hands clutching his hips and helping him move rhythmically, he realised that he was never entirely in control. He had sacrificed a lot of that to America a long time ago without realising it. He may not be a possession of America's legally, but he did belong to him emotionally.

He would never tell him that though. He could be honest about some things, but the broken man still retained enough pride to restrain him from voluntary subservience.

_viii. It took several tries before England finally said "yes"._

Only a few years following the Second World War, America had proposed for the first time. England had woken up, astonished to find that his boyfriend of two years and three months—not that he was counting—had been awake already, a fond smile gracing his lips and a sweet longing in his eyes that made long forgotten butterflies erupt in England's stomach. He blinked several times, wondering if he was still dreaming, but a few moments later, America leaned down and brushed their lips together. It was warm and comforting and it tasted mildly of coffee and tobacco but it wasn't altogether unpleasant. They exchanged friendly banter and England had been dismissed to shower, only to descent the stairs and smell an already prepared breakfast. America caught his shocked expression and grinned sheepishly, only offering an explanation of, "You are far too skinny, Arthur. You must move on from rationing."

They had gone out on the town to a couple of museums that America found mind-numbingly boring. He justified his blasé outlook with, "We experienced it; it's hardly entertaining to be reminded of one's past," to which England just sighed, shook his head, and moved to another exhibit. Nonetheless, America had been cordial, casually throwing in tidbits of information about his own history that the signs left out, along with personal renditions that normally depicted him as more righteous and England rolled his eyes and hid a few smiles. They had visited an art gallery and, whilst America hadn't complained, England eventually said that he was hungry. The younger man knew that the Brit was only doing it for his benefit and offered him a chaste kiss as they went to a near by café.

It was a far cry from a romantic restaurant that he would have liked to take the smaller man to, but England seemed content, stirring his black tea and nibbling delicately as a pastry as America made his way through a few. England must have been in a good mood, for he never once rebuked America for his insatiable appetite—he hadn't even frowned or sighed or shook his head in disapproval. Feeling lucky, he thread their fingers together under the table, watching the Brit hopefully, and felt elated when the man raised America's hand, brushed his lips over it, and placed their intertwined hand on the table. He caught the light flush dusting England's cheeks and felt a surge of affection, not bothering to control the jubilant grin.

The day had been successful but he did still feel some anxiety as he fingered the small box in his pocket later that day. England was knitting in his sitting room, humming a nameless tune from long ago that America vaguely recognised but couldn't name. Before he could unnerve himself further and cowardice got the better of him, he entered the room and offered a smile and a salute when emerald eyes flickered up.

He invited England to sit on the roof and gaze at the stars and, to his pleasure, the grouchy Brit agreed. He pointed out some constellations and provided back stories on the stars and wound his arm around England's thin shoulders and whispered into the night air, "Will you marry me?"

England had gone silent and his hair fell to hide his eyes, but his lips were contorted into a frown and he was trembling slightly beneath America's arm. "No," he had said, and then looked at America. "No, Alfred."

They had fought and screamed and cried when they were out of each other's sights and then, days later, argued some more before whispering apologies and bestowing regretful, guilty kisses over warm skin.

He tried again, years later, with wide, crazed eyes and shaking hands and babbled nonsense of Russia's plan to steal England, steal everything America loved, and a scared and anguished England with a mask of indifference rejected him and held him until he fell asleep. England wasn't even sure if America even remembered the incident, but he wasn't prepared to ask.

Once it had been England who had proposed, seeming nervous but fairly sure that he would receive an answer of affirmation. It was during the late seventies and he had taken America out to dinner, but America had seen him wince as he skimmed over the menu and noticed the reproach in deceptive green eyes as he requested a meagre meal for himself. He didn't mention it, but as soon as England had began the introduction to it, lifting a velvet box from his pocket and opening it to reveal a ring that America was _sure_ set him back by _a lot_, he didn't even let the man finished before blankly muttering: "No."

England threw a fit, spilling champagne over the both of them, screaming about how ungrateful America was, and they shouted as they were thrown out and didn't talk for weeks until Canada had locked them in a room together.

A soft drizzle was cascading from the midnight sky and England was huddled in America's infamous jacket, holding his hand seemingly without even thinking about it, and America smiled happily as he recalled the days England grimaced if they stood within a few feet of each other. The countdown to the near year begun, and they kissed a bit too early, laughing when they moved the same way, but then remedying it just in time as beautiful fireworks erupted in the sky, sprinkling sparkles throughout the sky and mingling with the stars, and America eventually pulled away, smiling against England's lips and casually whispering, "Marry me?"

And England murmured _yes_ and they kissed as he slid the ring on his fiancé's finger and he was glad that he always kept it with him, even if it was sentimental.

**o.**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia **_**belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

This was supposed to incorporate _**ten**_** truths, not eight, but no matter. Guh, my stories are so repetitive. I sincerely apologise and I honestly hope they don't bore you, especially when they lack sufficient dialogue. Gosan's lack of dialogue skills may be due to her lack of social skills. Gosan is a socially awkward penguin. :(**

i. Whilst I am a hopeless romantic and wish that they always cared for one another and slowly fell for each other, England _**was **_**a greedy bastard and he did cry to get America to go with him, so he is a bit of a manipulative wanker at times. But he did grow to love America, it just took him a while to realise because he's so emotionally stunted.**

ii. They weren't only antagonistic towards their enemies during the 1770s; they also disliked themselves a bit for the entire thing. Or, that's my view, at least. Both are too prideful to admit that they did feel bad for it but, although America might feel guilty for upsetting England, he would never take it back and he wouldn't apologise for something he worked for as he did. And England regrets being such a jerk but doesn't stop his grumpy ways. Such is the life of a tsundere.

iii. I've done this to Canada before. XD; I'm so horrible. Only England knew it was Canada this time. :o I think Canada is passive aggressive and capable of hurting others. He isn't an innocent "woobie" despite how cute he may be. So whilst he did, erm, _**do it**_** with England to console him somewhat, it's also a terrible thing to adhere to... Hey, he was probably pissed that England took him from France. *le shrug* Oh, England, when will you stop infuriating people? XD**

iv. The Anglo-Japanese alliance was before the First World War and after the historic event of 1812, so America and England would still be all YOU'RE A BASTARD I HATE YOU WITH THE PASSION OF A THOUSAND SUNS with each other, so America hates the arrangement from a distance. And ha, his plan backfired. :U The lesson: never knock someone's things on the floor. BURN THEM. No, don't. Please. Gosan is not a bad influence and she is not a pyro.

v. World War One! Despite the _**HUGE MISTAKE**_** I previously made in **_**Decode**_** (I still hate myself for that...), England - or more accurately, Britain - was still an empire. So he'd still probably be strong enough to kick America's arse, but then, America's always been strong, even before it was its own nation... but England's more experienced. Anyway, the point was that England was realising that America is no longer his precious baby and he is now a man. And England has girly hands. *shot!* I'm joking, but you would probably have lithe, nimble hands if you handled swords, were a pirate, and... you knit. :I Do I seem obsessed with hands?**

vi. Essentially, America teaching England the _**Jitterbug**_**, a popular dance at the time. As you can see, he eventually gave up, and they just started swaying. Lazy tossers.**

vii. Ah, America during the Cold War. He probably wasn't "all there" due to his passionate hatred for Russia and Communism. Alas, at this point, he is a world superpower and England has lost his empire, so England's a ball of angst because he's now smaller than America's penis. Geographically, anyway, not in terms of personifications. That would just be disturbing.

viii. Proposals galore! America tries to be romantic for dear England so he gets pretty peeved when he's rejected. As usual, they fight and make up. It's a neverending cycle. He tries again but England declines once more because it's not romantic enough. No pleasing him, is there? Then England gets full of himself and thinks America will leap into his arms and say "Yes, yes!" like a southern belle and then _**he**_** gets angry when he gets a no. Finally our neurotic Brit stops trying to resist Mr. Jones's charms and says yes. There is personal significance behind the fact that it's supposed to be on New Year's. :) Not that you guys will know. =w=;**

... Looking over my summaries, I seem to be rather unfair on England. I pretty much undermined my entire fic. XD I do like England—I am one of his relatively patriotic citizens... although I do sometimes proclaim my dislike for my country, but that's primarily because the person I love lives in America.

Anyway, "ab aeterno" is Latin for "for eternity". The meaning should become obvious from that translation. XD However, ruining the romantic aspect of it, the pronunciation reminds me of "Dante's Inferno". I'm sorry, I shan't ruin any more Latin. :)

I hope you enjoyed it!

— Gosangoku. xo


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